The gas burners hiss desperately, trying
to steer us clear, but there’s no time. It’ll
happen any moment now, probably in three,
two, one... The impact comes with a violent
confusion of creaking, snapping and splitting
— the sounds of wood under the utmost
strain, like a sailing ship battling a storm.
Branches drag sharply across the outside of
the basket, and we’re drenched in a stinging
shower of bark and lichen. All around is
the mighty heave and whoosh of displaced
boughs whipping back into place. Someone
gives a little scream.
And then, as suddenly as we’d entered
the maelstrom, we’re free of it and loating
away. My life hasn’t ended. Everybody starts
to unfold themselves and peer over the
edge of the basket, brushing bits from their
hair. “Sorry about the timber,” says our pilot
cheerfully as we climb away from the ield
and its slightly dishevelled tree. “Thank
god there wasn’t an ants’ nest in there,” he
continues, pulling at the cords that open
vents to control the light of the scarlet
balloon. “I went through a tree full of red
ants recently. Those buggers bite. All the
passengers were stripping of their clothes
and rolling around the loor.”
Dawn is breaking above central Sri Lanka,
the grey light warming to blue. There’s no
better way of getting the lay of the land than
from a hot air balloon. Our ragged take-of
was from a spot near Kandalama Reservoir
and now we’re driting westwards over
Dambulla, its Royal Cave Temple hidden
somewhere below, and on towards the
vast Ibbankatuwa Reservoir. The clench-
isted silhouette of the Knuckles Mountain
Range punches the southern horizon, whiledirectly below us is a glorious patchwork of
paddy ields.
“What is it about ruddy towers?” mutters
Justin as a radio mast looms, and he lares
the burners to make a lazy leapfrog over
the top. Justin is from Great Missenden, in
Buckinghamshire, but he spends the months
between October and May running balloon
trips in Sri Lanka. “Flying conditions are
tough because it gets gusty. And landing is
a lottery,” he adds, disconcertingly. “There
always seems to be a bloody tree in the way.”
But he’s survived 14 years of coming here,
and the views make up for the odd choppy
touchdown. “Isn’t it amazing what nature
creates?” he muses as we pass a pair of rock
formations rising from the yellow-green
crops like sugar loaves; so smooth and
perfect you’d think they’d been fashioned
by design rather than the elements. The sun
is higher now, and our balloon casts a heart-
shaped shadow on the ground. Farmers at
harvest straighten up to shield their eyes and
watch us. A dog barks madly at the balloon,
tearing along a hedgerow in its determination
to bring down this thing in the sky.
We land an hour later — sotly, thankfully,
at the edge of a rather waterlogged ield
— and Justin hands round glasses of
Champagne, “Because any light you walk
away from is a good light!” I don’t mention
the one thing that would’ve made it better:
an elephant. It was special to spot peacocks
fanning their tails, of course, and yesterday
I was accompanied on my slog up the 1,200
steps of Sigiriya’s ancient fortress by a gang
of torque monkeys, swaggering loose-
limbed along rocky ledges as if they owned
the place.So, this is how my life will end.
I make myself as ball-like as
possible, face jammed between bent
knees, arms wrapped tight about
my head. A human hedgehog.
IMAGE: GETTY92 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel
SRI LANKA